He grew bored, travelled yet again, then had restoration work done to the Château de Villebosc, which he owned. This took two years and after that he held a series of house parties there which kept him busy for at least another fifteen months. Finally, when the constant round of pleasure had become a little tedious, he returned to his town house in the rue de Lille, just six years after the separation. He was now forty-five years old, with more than a dusting of white hair, more than a slight paunch, and the slightly melancholy look that people who were once attractive, sought-after and loved have about them as each day wreaks some further havoc on their person. A month after his return to Paris he caught cold as he was going home from his club one night. The cold developed into a cough and his doctor ordered him to spend the remainder of the winter in Nice. Accordingly, one Monday night soon afterwards, he set off, taking the express train.

He arrived late, just as it was beginning to move. There was space in a coupé,1 into which he climbed. One passenger was already settled in the farthest seat but was so bundled up with coats and fur coverings that there was no way of guessing if the passenger was male or female. Resigned to ignorance, the Baron too put on his travelling hat, unrolled his own coverings, snuggled into them and, stretching out, fell fast asleep. It was dawn before he awoke and looked immediately over at his companion. The latter had not moved all night and appeared to be still deep in sleep. Monsieur d’Etrailles took this opportunity of performing his morning toilet, brushing his beard and recomposing the face which, as one grows older, night ravages so deeply.

‘How triumphant are the mornings of the young!’, as the poet has it.2

What magnificent awakenings there are indeed in youth, when we rise fresh-faced and bright-eyed, hair glossy with the sap of life. With age come the lacklustre eyes, the red, puffy complexion, the coated tongue, the unkempt beard, the tangled hair, all spelling staleness, fatigue and exhaustion – ‘the day’s disasters in his morning face’. The Baron, having opened his travelling-case, gave a few final touches to his appearance and waited.

The whistle blew and the train stopped. His neighbour shifted. Awake, no doubt. Then the train moved off again. A shaft of sunlight slanted into the compartment and fell directly across the sleeper who moved again, butting the air a few times like a chick coming out of an egg, then calmly emerged.

It was a fresh young blonde woman, plump and very pretty. She sat up.